


Strings (Narry AU)

by michaelcleffa



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:59:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelcleffa/pseuds/michaelcleffa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uni student Harry works at the mall bakery.  Across the hall is the music store home to instruments he only wishes he could play and a boy who can play them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings (Narry AU)

            I always wanted to play an instrument. 

            It started when I was three years old and I stumbled upon the piano in my aunt and uncle’s house.  My tiny baby fingers slammed down on the keys without a care in the world.  The chaotic sounds were music to my ears, but it wasn’t long before my mother came along and scolded me for making so much noise.

            In middle school, everyone had to take either choir or band.  I would have done anything to get out of singing publicly.  My parents, however, had other plans.  They said they didn’t want to pay for an instrument and signed me up for choir.  It was always sad to see my classmates go off to band class and do something they loved while I pretended to sing for forty-five minutes.  I got a C.

            All of my friends were in marching band in secondary school.  If there was anything band-related, I was a guaranteed presence.  I wish I could have been beside my best friends on the field, but my seat in the bleachers would have to suffice.  My friends gave me the title of “honorary band member”, but that wasn’t a title anyone else would ever recognize.

            I forgot about wanting to play an instrument the year I was due to graduate.  I had too many other things to worry about; applying to universities, getting good marks, and working after school took up enough of my time.  My friends had multiple patches on their letterman jackets; meanwhile, I never even bothered to buy a jacket.  What was the point of getting one if I didn’t have anything to put on it?

            I took a music history class my first semester in university.  It was the only class I actually wanted to go to.  My advisor told me to declare a major.  Despite knowing I would regret the decision, I signed up for four business classes and declared a business major.   It wasn’t something I liked that much, but I was told that I would do well with it.  I wasn’t so sure about that.

            I started working at the bakery in the mall my second semester of college.  Its central location provided sights of every end of the building from the Build-A-Bear next door to the expensive handbag store at the end of the hall.  The customers were terrible sometimes, but it wasn’t all bad.  There was a music store right across the hall, and sometimes the beautiful music seeped out through the doors for everyone to hear. 

            I had made a habit of visiting the shop some nights after my shift at the bakery ended.  By that time, the crowds had cleared out of the mall.  Only a few stragglers stayed behind to take advantage of that last hour until closing.  It was usually my first and only stop on the way out of the building.

            At night, the shop was quiet save for the soft music coming from the speakers scattered throughout the room.  It had been like that every time I visited the past few weeks.  Everything about the store was consistent: the classical music echoing through the room, the particular arrangement of instruments, and the blond boy behind the counter who didn’t even look up when the front door opened.  There were other small details that I was beginning to pick up on, such as the layer of dust beginning to collect on the piano in the front and the barely audible static sound that accompanied the background music. 

            I didn’t know why I kept going back.  I couldn’t even play any of the instruments out on display.  There was no reason for me to be there.  Most of the times that I went into the shop, I eyed different instruments that I only wished I could pick up and start playing but knew I would probably never be able to.  I ran my fingers lightly over the keys of the piano at the front of the store.  The last key I came to drew out a high pitched squeal when I pressed down on it ever so slightly.

            I glanced up to find the guy behind the counter staring over at me.  My gaze turned back to the piano for a moment, but then back up at the counter.  The guy had turned his attention to the computer in front of him as if I wasn’t even there.  I pressed down on the key again and kept my eyes on him while I did so.

            He looked up again with an annoyed glare.  “Can I help you?”

            “I’m fine,” I responded, keeping my eyes on him and my hand on the piano.  “Just looking.”

            He rolled his eyes and stood up.  “Let me know if you’re actually going to buy something today.  My guess is that you’re going to walk out in about ten minutes like you do every other time.”

            “I don’t do that every time,” I protested.

            “Sure you don’t,” he scoffed with his gaze moving towards the piano.  “Can you even play the piano?”

            “Well,” I started and attempted to come up with a clever response.  “No.”  As usual, I managed to sound the exact opposite of clever.

            “What is it then?” He began to walk along the edges of the store, naming off instruments.  “Violin?  Clarinet? Piccolo?”  The list continued until he finally stopped behind the piano.  “Anything?” 

            “I don’t actually play any instruments,” I admitted after a moment of silence.

            “I figured you didn’t,” he replied with a chuckle.  “Any self-respecting musician would avoid working with food like the plague.  There are too many things you can do to ruin your hands.”

            We both glanced down at my hands.  He probably had noticed the various burns and scrapes all over them.  I hadn’t even noticed them until now.  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and looked back up at him.

            “So, what does a self-respecting musician play, then?” I questioned.

            “A little bit of everything.”  With a smirk, he sat down on the bench in front of the piano and began to play.  I recognized the tune but couldn’t quite place where I had heard it before.

            Before I could open my mouth to ask him another question, he had gotten up and grabbed a nearby instrument.  It was a violin.  At least, I _thought_ it was a violin.  Some of the string instruments were so similar and I wasn’t able to distinguish much of a difference. 

            “Were you going to say something?” he asked.  He began to play the new instrument so effortlessly and I sat in a daze for a while before realizing he had talked to me.

            “Oh, well, say someone who hasn’t played an instrument before want to learn how to play one.  What should they play?  What about a flute?  Flutes look pretty easy.”

            He laughed.  “You’re kidding, right?  Most beginners want to start with a clarinet or maybe the piano.”

            “Well, what do you think I should start with then?” I retorted.  He hadn’t stopped playing as of yet and I began to wonder whether he was trying to impress or intimidate me.  Quite frankly, I thought it was arrogant; at the same time, I wish I was able to do the same thing.

            “I don’t know.  You might be able to play the triangle.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “I don’t think you’re going to want to learn to play an instrument at this point.”  The sound of the violin stopped and he put it back in its place.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get ready to close down for the night.  The name’s Niall if you decide to show up again.”   He turned away and went back to his former seat behind the counter.

            I frowned but began to walk towards the door anyway.  I had my right hand on the door when I stopped and turned back around.  “What about a guitar?”

 

* * *

 

 

            A week after I bought my first guitar, I found myself back in the music store.  It seemed that my timing was just right, because I walked right into the person who I was looking for.

            “Do you need something?”  Niall asked me.  He clearly wasn’t afraid to hide his annoyance judging by the way his lips curled into a frown and his eyebrows seemed more furrowed than I had noticed before.

            “Actually, I do,” I responded with a grin.  “Guitar lessons.”

            “I wasn’t actually serious,” he muttered, then shook his head.  “I’m off right now so if you want to talk about guitar lessons, go talk to Joe in the shop.”

            “If I’m going to learn to play right, I might as well learn from the best.”

            “Listen, I don’t have time to teach an amateur how to pluck some strings,” he replied.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I have better things to do.”

            He began to walk away, but stopped after the next thing I said.  “What self-respecting musician would deny an aspiring musician the chance to learn from them?”

            He stared back blankly for a few moments before responding.  “A good one.”  Once again, he turned back around, only to face me again after moving two steps forward.  “Come by tomorrow night and I’ll see what I can do.”

            I grinned.  “I knew you would do it.”

            I spent most of the next day plopping cookie dough onto baking sheets, sliding those into the oven, and pulling them back out twelve minutes later.  It was such repetitive work.  I could have been working on practicing with my guitar, but instead I made cookies that were bound to disappear shortly after coming out of the oven.

            I pulled out what I hoped would be the last pan of cookies for the day and went to set them on the counter when I was interrupted by a familiar voice at the counter.

            “Can I get something?”

            I turned to face Niall and for a moment forgot about the sizzling cookies on the tray in my left hand.  When I turned, the tray did not turn with me resulting in my getting poked in the stomach by the oven-heated tray.  I jumped in surprise and began to lose my grip.  My right hand reached to rescue the cookies from their impending doom, but I didn’t realize until too late that my right hand lacked the thick fabric protection that my other hand had.

            At that point I decided to screw the cookies and let them fall to their deaths.  My hand was screaming with pain, except maybe I was actually screaming.  It was hard to tell the difference.  I stepped on a fallen cookie on my way towards the nearest sink.  I let cool water run over my injured hand for a few moments before looking back up.

            It was the first time I had seen Niall looking something other than annoyed or disinterested.  It was strange to see him look so concerned.

            “Sorry, I’ll be just a minute if you want something,” I told him.

            “It’s fine,” he responded.  “We can put off those guitar lessons though.”

            “No, it’s fine!” I argued.  “I can still do it.”

            No I couldn’t.  My hand hurt to move.  There was no way I would be able to play the guitar like normal in just an hour or two.

            “Seriously, we’ll do it another time,” he assured me.  “You need to get that taken care of before you do anything else.”

            “Fine,” I mumbled. 

            “Hey,” he said with a grin.  “I told you no self-respecting musician works with food.”


End file.
